


The Court of the Moon

by grinningwalrus



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Modern Setting, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Thumbelina AU, Thumbelina!Stiles, fairy!Derek, reasons why i should sleep at night
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-18
Packaged: 2017-11-09 23:56:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grinningwalrus/pseuds/grinningwalrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek Hale is a prince of the Court of the Moon, one of the fairy courts responsible for keeping the world in balance. When fairies and humans alike begin to turn up dead within the court's territory, Derek is desperately searching for the cause. In his investigations he comes across a tiny boy, who just so happens to be the Sheriff's son. Perhaps this Stiles will be able to help him find some answers. With Stiles sneaking peeks at the human side of the killings, and Derek investigating the fairy deaths, will they be able to find the answer?</p><p>Or, the one where Stiles is Thumbelina, except he has an internet connection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this is a Thumbelina AU, and i should really sleep more at night. I will be drawing from Don Bluth's movie, as well as Hans Christian Andersen's Thumbelina, and adding some of my own ideas sprinkled in.  
> Also, big thanks to my wonderful beta Asterxia!

For a species so concerned about whether or not they were alone in the universe, they left little to no thought about whether they were even alone on the Earth. At least not for many years, not since cream was left on porches and windowsills, and pieces of bread were kept in pockets as a precaution when walking at night, particularly under a bright moon. Now the fair folk only remained in the minds of humans as children’s tales—and even then it was a cheery, frankly insulting view, something to lull young one’s to sleep or to wonder over in the light of day. No one believed anymore, and if they did they were considered crazy. As it was, the fair folk did not much mind—they may miss the respect of the old days, but it was safer this way. Each race could go about their business without worrying about any of the messy business of being caught. Glamoring could only do so much, and tended to have a negative affect on the human mind after a while. Now though, humans did not even see the fair folk. Humans were stubborn creatures, and if they did not wish to see they wouldn’t.  


The fair folk had long past settled into two courts, one to reign over the northern hemisphere, and the other the south. They were much more in tune with nature than humans, and understood there was a balance to all things. The turning of the seasons, one hemisphere balancing out the other. The turn from day to night, cycling around the sun as the moon cycles the earth. And so to keep this balance the two courts were formed. One was the Court of the Sun, located in the southern hemisphere. Those of the Court of the Sun had skin kissed by the light of the day, and hair that shone like golden hallows about their crowns, and wings the color of leaves in full autumn. They reveled in the day, frolicking in the sun and played in the sunbeams themselves. The Court of the Moon was held far away, in the northern hemisphere, located neatly on opposite sides of the Earth. The fae of the Court of the Moon were beautiful like the night itself: skin shone pale like the moon, hair the color of the darkened skies, and wings like the star jeweled evening.  


Each Court was lead by a royal family, whose members traced back to the Beginning, when humans believed. The Court of the Moon was ruled by the family of the Hales, a large family amassed of the King and Queen, their siblings, their own children and their siblings children. Sisters, brother, aunts, uncles, cousins; the Court of the Moon was always busy, always filled with laughter, singing and music filling their glen under the moon’s gentle light.  


The two courts were responsible for the changing of the seasons, each ushering in the new season in tandem, one in the northern hemisphere, the other in the south. This was not the fairies only power—they could cast glamors over humans, improve the bounty of a harvest, or affect the weather. They were filled with the energy of life, a dangerous tool if not properly controlled, but rarely did a fairy perform any of their acts maliciously—perhaps mischievously, but not with ill intent. A fairy who has lost their control, however, could be a very dangerous thing indeed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise we'll get to the characters next chapter, this was just for background.


	2. Yo Daddy-o

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The one where Stiles is Thumbelina, except he has an internet connection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to Asterxia for betaing!

Sheriff Stilinski choked on a sigh and his body dropped to an empty kitchen chair like someone had cut his strings. Tired eyes roved the kitchen; the fridge looked empty, covered in magnets but devoid of the photos they once held, the contents to painful to look at now. The counters were covered in containers and baking tins of casseroles, lasagnas, and pasta salads that couldn’t fit in the all ready full refrigerator. Looking at them the Sheriff almost wanted to laugh, for all that it would sound empty and broken. Their kitchen was more full of food than ever and he couldn't even bring himself to have an appetite. As it was, most of the well-wished food would never make it to the fridge, and would slowly spoil on the counter, until the Sheriff was forced to throw it all out. The man’s elbow dropped to the table, almost overturning the glass of whisky there. The Sheriff couldn't remember how much he had already drunk, but all that really mattered as that the bottle wasn’t empty yet. He quickly downed what remained in the glass and let his head fall into his hands.

Everything was gone now—she was gone. And there was nothing—before this all started, before the doctors visits, and the stays in the hospital that became ever more frequent and stretched over longer and longer amounts of time—they had been talking about kids. About planning for the rest of their lives. What they would do after they retired. How many kids? Would they stay in Beacon Hills? Should they remodel their house? Or at least repaint that hideous bathroom? The one she always scrunched her nose up at and swore up and down the previous owners must have done it just to spite whoever moved in next. Now he couldn’t even enter the room without thinking of her, feeling the loss all over.

Some people claim it’s better this way, losing them slowly, because at least you have the time to say goodbye. The Sheriff wanted to find anyone who dared claim such a thing and force them to eat their words. There was nothing easy about this. There was nothing _easy_ about watching the love of your life dying bit by bit in front of you, a little more each day while there is _nothing_ you can do about it. Helpless.

The Sheriff’s hand slid across the table, searching for the bottle of whisky. The alcohol numbed his thoughts, his memories, his senses. It numbed everything. He poured himself another glass, not even pretending to worry about measuring out a finger or not anymore. God, what did it all matter? He rubbed at his face with a shaking hand, slumping deeper into the chair.

He knew as Sheriff he had responsibilities, that people were depending on him, but how was he supposed to keep up like his life hadn’t just been ripped away from him? There were gaping holes in his life everywhere he turned, memories that ate away at him until he felt empty and leaden at the same time. The Sheriff’s hand hit his glass distractedly, and he wondered when he had emptied it again. He jolted, arm stretched out to grab the bottle again, when a knock came at the door. It wasn’t until a second knock came that the Sheriff stood with a groan, moving toward the front entrance mechanically.

If it was another mournful Beacon Hills resident offering up their condolences with meat pies and three bean casseroles the Sheriff wasn’t sure if he could stop himself from slamming the door in their sympathetic faces. He knew they meant well, were just trying to lessen his pain, but every one was just another reminder. The Sheriff took a steadying breath, hand on the doorknob, then swung the door open, offering a blank face to whoever stood on the doorstep. He blinked, however, his expression slipping from careful control when he took in the person who stood there.

It was an old woman, bent in her age and wrapped tightly in a cloak that looked more tattered and threadbare than warm. Her face was cast in shadow by the mostly intact hood, shielding her face from the blistering wind that had picked up as the sun set beyond the horizon. The Sheriff was pretty sure he had never seen her before, and as Sheriff he knew pretty much everyone in Beacon Hills.

“Please,” the woman’s voice rasped, so quiet the Sheriff almost didn’t catch it over the wind. “Could you spare something to eat?” It took the Sheriff a moment before he fully processed the question, all thoughts flying from his mind in confusion.

“I…” he thought of his full fridge and countertops littered in Tupperware. “Just a moment,” he told the woman, and returned to his kitchen, picking up one of the larger containers. Without hesitation he returned to the door and offered it to the woman.

Hands appeared from within her cloak, wrapping around the container. The Sheriff noticed that they shook slightly, and were gnarled and chapped by the cold.

“Thank you sir,” the woman said, bringing the food to her breast. “Please, accept this in return.” Carefully balancing the container under one fragile arm, the woman reached into her cloak.

“You don’t need to…I’m just glad it can go to someone who needs it,” the Sheriff reassured, but the woman was already retracting her hand from her cloak, something tiny and golden clasped between her thumb and index finger.

“Please, I insist. You may find it is precisely what you are searching for.” The Sheriff opened his mouth to politely decline the woman’s offer again when he caught her words, and closed his mouth again.

“What is it?” he finally asked, his voice hushed.

“It is a seed. Plant it in a flowerpot, water it, care for it, and you will be rewarded.” The Sheriff blinked. A seed?

“Hold out your hand,” the woman requested and after only a moment’s hesitation, the Sheriff did so.

The woman raised the seed to her lips, pressing her lips to the coat in a brief kiss. Her lips brushed the surface as she murmured, “It’s time to wake up Genim.” Before the Sheriff noticed she was moving, the woman placed the seed in his palm and raised her head, the hood shifting to reveal her eyes—brown and bright with youth and health, and all too familiar. The Sheriff choked on his breath, but the woman was gone, and he was left standing in his still-open doorway, clutching a tiny seed in his hand.

\--

The Sheriff wasn’t exactly sure how to go about carefully for a plant, let alone one that had yet to sprout. He dug through his garage, unearthing an old hard plastic pot that he did not remember ever seeing before, but at least it wasn’t cracked like the previous two he had come across. Then debated what to do with the soil—could he just grab some dirt from the yard? But all the planting sites he checked talked about potting soil and peat moss and sand ratios… Not to mention he didn’t know if the plant was going to be one that needed lots of sun, or almost no sun, or how much water, as all the sites seemed to think it as detrimental to be specific on that depending on the plant species. Should he worry about getting fertilizer, too? Sheriff Stilinski ran a hand through his hair in frustration. He was just about to leave the garage with his non-broken pot when he spotted a slumped, mostly empty bag against the far wall. Closer inspection revealed the label read Top Quality Soil Mix! so he drug the bag inside as well.

Once he filled the pot with the soil, he rechecked his computer. Apparently he shouldn’t burry the seed too deep, or it wouldn’t grow. In the end he just made a little hole, dropped the seed in and carefully smoothed the surface back out. Setting the pot in the middle of his kitchen table he poured water into it until the soil was moist, then just sat and stared at it. Suddenly he felt the urge to laugh, it was a hysterical feeling, clutching at his chest. He looked down at his soil-covered hands, dirt stuck under his fingernails. He released a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob, then buried his face in his hands.

\--

When the Sheriff woke the next morning, it was to a sore back and his cheek pressed against the tabletop. He rubbed a hand over his face, and grimaced when the action left the gritty feeling of dirt behind. With a sigh he stood, making to go shower when he caught a glance of the pot in the middle of the table. Where last night there had only been a smooth surface of soil, there was now a tiny speck of green. A small sprout was just pushing up through the soil. The Sheriff’s face felt strange, and it took him a moment to realize it was because he was smiling, his lips quirking up just a little on either side of his mouth. He shook his head and went to take his shower and get ready for work. He’d been away for long enough already.

\--

When the Sheriff returned from work, the potted plant was still there in the center of the table, the sprout unchanged. The Sheriff stared at it for an extra moment then sighed, and popped some of one of the many casseroles into the microwave. It was a quiet night, just him, leftovers, and the muted tv. The house had never felt so empty.

The Sheriff continued like that, going to work mechanically, coming home exhausted, and spending some quality time nursing leftovers and watching television. He watered the sprout, and as the days progressed he noticed the changes. By the end of the week, it was a tiny stalk, graced by a single leaf, standing no more than an inch or two tall. Sometimes he caught himself, just sitting at the table and watching the plant. Every time this happened he would shake his head at himself, glance at the still-half full bottle of whiskey on the counter, and decide it was time for bed.

Two weeks passed like this, the plant slowly growing, putting out another leaf. After another couple days, the Sheriff noticed a tiny bud forming at the apex of the stem as he crossed the kitchen to head to bed. He still didn’t know why he was given the seed, or what kind of plant it was, but it was true, he found, that it was comforting to look at. To have something to take care of.

When the Sheriff came home from work the next day he was exhausted; on top of a bomb threat at the high school, there had been two calls for disturbing the peace—on opposite ends of town—and finally Mrs. Harke called to report witnesses a murder in her neighbors back yard. Again. And like the 32 previous calls, it turned out she had fallen asleep to CSI again. The Sheriff sighed, all he wanted to do was collapse on the couch, and possibly call in dead the next day. He stumbled to the cupboard to get a glass for water, he caught a flash of red out the corner of his eye. The bud that had been tiny and green the night before had expanded to a tightly coiled flower, petals a dark, heady red.

As he watched the petals slowly unfurled, revealing in the center what appeared to be a tiny, curled up…person. The Sheriff’s eyes widened as the shape moved, lifting tiny arms in a long stretch, mouth yawning wide, before brown eyes blinked and looked around the room, focusing on the Sheriff standing dumbfounded against the counters.

The tiny boy grinned wide and stood, and in a cheerful voice called, “Yo daddy-o!”

\--

The Sheriff gaped, wondering if he had fallen asleep in the doorway, or had collapsed on the couch and didn't realize it and was now dreaming. If so, what on earth brought about this? Too much coffee maybe? Or maybe—

“Sheriff Stilinski,” the boy said, and the Sheriff started, then realized the boy was reading one of the sympathy cards he had left on the table. The boy’s face scrunched up, “That’s a funny first name.”

“It’s not a name, it’s a title,” the Sheriff responded, unconsciously.

The boy whistled. “Wow, a Sheriff! That is so cool! Do you fight bad guys? Lay down the law? File obscene amounts of paperwork? What am I talking about, of course you file obscene amounts of paperwork.” The boy seemed to be talking more to himself than the Sheriff.

The Sheriff stepped away from the counters, rubbing a hand over his face before looking at the flower again. It didn’t make a difference; the tiny boy was still there, blabbering on. The man recalled the words the old woman had murmured to the seed. _Time to wake up, Genim._

“Gen…Gem..” the Sheriff tried, but he couldn’t quite get the pronunciation.

The boy made a face, “Ugh. Not that, I hate that. It just sounds weird. Hmm, I know, call me Stiles! I can be Stiles Stilinski!”

“Stiles…Stilinski?”

The boy snorted, “Of course, what else would it be Dad?” The Sheriff felt something tug at his chest, that heaviness that had settled there over the weeks of his wife’s death felt lighter. And the boy, Stiles…his eyes were a mischievous shade of honey brown that the Sheriff would recognize anywhere.

“Is it just me, or is it a little drafty in here?” Stiles asked, wrapping his arms around his naked chest. The Sheriff coughed and dug around until he managed to find a clean kitchen towel.

“Cool, it can be like a toga! A really, _really_ big toga,” Stiles commanded, wrapping the cloth around him and finding it trailed several inches beyond the flower petals. “Right so…I don’t think I can get down, little help pops?”

The rest of the night was a blur for the Sheriff. Finding something for the talkative boy to sleep in—matchbox—and then some washrags that could be used for blankets, thinking about the things he’d have to do the next day: where was he going to get clothes for the boy? Maybe doll clothes? But Stiles was _really_ small, only a couple inches, and all the dolls the Sheriff had seen were at least the size of a barbie. Wait, weren’t there kid barbies? Maybe that would work. All the while Stiles blabbered on: about the table, about the stove, about the couch, about the light fixtures, anything and everything, ending on his overwhelming desire for food.

After he had fed Stiles and put the boy to bed, matchbox cozy on the kitchen table for now, he collapsed into his own bed, sleeping the sleep of the dead until his alarm blared at him the next morning. 

 


End file.
